Instead of being apologetic, I wanted to be vindicated, somehow. I sent a statement to my mentor; it read something like a police report, detailing my conversation, word for word, with the three students. I wasn’t just angry; I was outraged. I wanted to show how authority was being misused to blacken the name of innocent people like me. I suggested the creation of a tribunal to deal with injustices. My argument read quite well, and could have worked, except that this was a convent, for God’s sake, not a political establishment, a war zone, or a gathering of war criminals being tried for their crimes against humanity. Alas, humility and meekness, the traditional cure for a sore heart, had become foreign, useless concepts to me.
The worst letter, three pages long, came from someone in my community I had thought was on my side: Sister Albion—a short, nervous nun with an attractive smile, striking face and very dark eyebrows. Sister Albion had been practising her public speaking techniques on us: giving talks, moving motions and answering imaginary questions, all to gain confidence and skills in the Westminster system. Was she getting ready to enter politics? Not quite, but she did become my next Reverend Mother, after which her natural shyness disappeared for good, replaced by an unbending personality, ready to break wills and hearts.
She sent her letter while she was on holiday, where she was secretly being prepared for her new role. The tone of the letter was kindly, pleading with me to participate more and not be so much on my own. It was sane advice, but I was unable to hear it because none of my grievances were acknowledged.
‘Make people conscious that you care about them,’ she wrote, avoiding the main topic of my recent rebellion. ‘We can never judge anyone,’ she continued, referring to my complaints about the way I was treated, ‘and if we develop the habit of always suspecting others, thinking that they underrate us or thinking they are always against us, then we shall have no peace of soul. Besides, it is not Christ-like.’
She was right, of course. She was telling me I was being paranoid, and I was. The proof was my continued and increasing distress at all the ‘evidence’ I saw around me that I was misunderstood, mistreated and underrated.
‘When you hold on to your own opinion, pride is at the root of it,’ she urged. ‘Forget yourself, put all your energy into helping others and you will find that you will have no worries, no heartaches, for most often our biggest heartache is ourself. Oh dear, how I preach!’ she admitted. There was no doubt that she meant well, but she didn’t realise that it was impossible to appeal to my good side while so much lay unaddressed. Her letter was an invitation to sweep everything under the carpet and go back to being a good nun, for Christ’s sake. How did she think this would work?
THAT CHRISTMAS I hung the decorations up as usual, getting happily lost for a while in the creative fun of the job. It was also my task to store them all away a few weeks later, in boxes kept in the attic. Mother Albion, who had taken up her position as superior in early January, came to see how I was getting on. She inspected the boxes, then, to my astonishment and grief, blithely turned them all upside down and started packing them away again herself, insisting that I watch. I was soon in tears, but she took no notice. She seemed to have plenty of time, chatting to people who came to her for one thing or another as she worked, before finally she asked me to take the boxes away. Her newlyinvested superior power had instantly wiped out her former hesitant manner.
Mother Albion’s power grew over several years, as she was moved from house to house to fulfil a term here, there and everywhere, carrying out her role of stern management. It was due to this that the declining Society eventually regained the wealth it had once enjoyed in the days when many women took up the vocation. Mother Albion came into power at a time when new entrant numbers were in serious decline, necessitating the employment of more and more lay teachers. She understood the importance of hiring only the best teachers—at least for the all-important Genazzano convent—in order to attract the best students (that is, the best payers) and, in turn, secure the future wellbeing of the FCJ order in Australia. For a while, this strategy worked. However, eventually the lay teachers were not content to work under nuns less qualified and so lay headmistresses and a board took over much of the schools’ management.
My father wholeheartedly hated Mother Albion, convinced that she was responsible for the sufferings inflicted upon him by the board at Genazzano.
The members of the board did not appreciate the forty years my father had dedicated to building up a dazzling display of beauty in the convent gardens, nor the expense of keeping them up. And they didn’t think twice about knocking down his garage and workshed when they needed the space for an Olympic-sized swimming pool. My father was a simple man. When he saw trees that he had planted thirty years ago knocked down because they were in the way of a straight path, he blamed Mother Albion, who was by then the Mother Vicar. She probably no longer had the power of veto over the board, but my father could never understand that. His jaws worked, his eyes popped in rage, his hands and arms, muscled and veined from the supreme effort he had put into his work, felt the lameness of terrible impotence.
ON AN ORDINARY but chilly morning, I woke up and couldn’t move. It was like being stuck in a bad horror movie. The sister doing the ‘Praise be to Jesus!’ wake-up call should have waited for my ‘Amen!’ before taking off, but as I was usually one of the first to jump out of bed she didn’t bother to listen for my familiar confirmation. The others in the cubicles next to mine (the curtains had been replaced by thin walls) went about their usual routine in bustling silence. I tried to call out, but the small sound that came out of my dry mouth was muffled by the noise of shoes on floors and the thump of bedding being piled on chairs. With a big effort I reached to knock on the wall next to my bed, but still there was no response.
After breakfast an annoyed infirmarian entered my cubicle. She had been called by Sister Madeleine, who had missed seeing me around and had poked her head in to find me when she came back upstairs. Sister Marian’s face made it clear that she suspected me of pretending to be ill, but as she couldn’t make me get up, the doctor was called in. He prescribed anti-spasmodic tablets to persuade my muscles to give up their catatonic state. My body had literally seized up, somehow matching my feelings of being in a straitjacket.
After a few days I was well enough to resume duties, for which everyone was grateful. The boarders greeted me with, ‘Glad you’re better, Sister,’ and smiled when they saw me back in the refectory where I served them dinner. That little human touch did a lot to relax the clench in my back.
ORDERS FROM THE bishop made sure there was more human diversion in our lives. One of the best innovations that trickled down from Vatican II was the extra fun in our holidays: they were full of talk and laughter, guitar-playing, tennis, group dances—we danced in circles like the fairies might have done in Ireland—and swimming. The society had purchased a forty-acre section of the Peninsula Golf Course at Frankston, a beach suburb not far from Melbourne, for a new school. Its guesthouse was easily transformed into a convent and I spent a vacation there in 1967. We went to the beach early in the morning, dressed in black cossies that were meant to be inconspicuous but were anything but, accentuating give-away white skin everywhere.
My sister and I were never housed at the same convent in the five years that she was a probationary nun. Her buddy at Genazzano was Sister Anna; they shared an iconoclastic attitude, although Sister Anna’s was more intellectual and guarded, and therefore more diplomatic and acceptable. Anna also showed a sweet humour about all the things she ridiculed or derided. My sister, however, transformed her ideas into action, and immediate action at that. Eventually, in spite of the shortage of vocations, she was considered ‘bad blood’ because of me and wasn’t allowed to stay on.
However, in the autumn of 1968 she was at Genazzano, and I wanted to be near someone who could understand me and make me laugh. The Easter holidays were coming up. I fronted up to Mother Albion, without much hope, to ask if I could be
with my sister for their duration. This unprecedented request was refused, as expected, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.
On the day before Good Friday I packed a small bag with toiletries and a few underclothes and headed for the highway, which passed close by the front gates. No one saw me leave because they were all at prayers; ostensibly, I had left the chapel to go to the toilet. I wrote a little note and left it on my superior’s breakfast plate, both hoping and not hoping that it would give her indigestion. ‘I’ve gone to visit my sister at Genazzano,’ she read later with unbelieving eyes. ‘I’m travelling with friends, so don’t worry. Sister Mary Carla.’
The ‘friends’ I was referring to were whoever might pick me up to travel south. I simply trusted in God to send me friendly people to take care of me.
It was a drizzly day and I headed for the protection of a leafy tree. I looked along the bitumen highway, the only arterial road going south, and my heart thumped when I saw a shiny black car coming towards me. As if I had done this all my life, I raised the thumb of my right hand as it came nearer. My white habit made me the most visible target in the world, even under a shady tree on a grey day.
The car slowed down and stopped close by, off the road. There were three men in it; from where I was standing I guessed the driver to be Italian—an instant plus for me, bringing back memories of the warm-hearted Italian friends of my teens. Relying on the instinct that would protect me in so many situations in the future, I knew I would be safe with these men. The back door swung open to let me in—an invitation to share the seat with an open-mouthed Australian farmer, a heavy man with a big stomach and spreading legs.
We were well on our way when they asked, ‘Where are you going, Sister?’ ‘To Melbourne,’ I replied. ‘Is that all right?’ ‘That’s all right with us,’ said the driver decidedly, heading off questions from the others for the time being.
They were heading for Melbourne, but not necessarily for Kew, where Genazzano was located. It never occurred to me that their destination might be elsewhere in Melbourne’s vast metropolis. I was deeply grateful, and thanked them very much for their kindness, showing a cool that I hoped was convincing.
The men said they were Catholics, to make me feel better. They must have had a strong inkling that this tall, white-faced sister travelling with them was in a bad way. Surely, the convent would have put her on a bus, at least—and certainly she should not be travelling alone.
The driver spoke up again. ‘Where in Melbourne are you going, Sister?’ I explained it was to the convent on top of the hill in Kew, and one of them remembered the row of cypress trees along Cotham Road. ‘To see my sister,’ I added, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation.
A road map was taken out and, once they were sure of the way, silence fell. They were polite enough not to talk about worldly things, because I wouldn’t be able to join in. They sat lost in their thoughts, casting an occasional glance at the nun in the back seat, who had half collapsed against the back door, her little brown suitcase beside her like a barrier separating her from the big man next to her. Other than the odd banal comment, no one spoke, as if we were all spontaneously on retreat.
It was a fairly long journey—about 180 kilometres—but we didn’t stop along the way. The man behind the wheel lost absolutely no time in his effort to deliver me as soon as God was willing. The country road entered the humming business of the suburbs. The driver knew exactly where he was going. As soon as I recognised a familiar tramline I offered to catch it, but they wouldn’t hear of it. When the ornate convent gates on Cotham Road came into view, I offered to walk down the driveway, lined with magnificent flowerbeds planted by my father, but again they didn’t want to risk losing their passenger, especially now, so close to target. The black car sailed down the winding driveway, around the oval with its stately trees and stopped at the porch with its oak front door. They waited while I rang the echoing bell. When the heavy door swung open, they shouted farewell and drove off—these men who had turned out to be truly my friends.
The portress was shocked to see me, and called the Reverend Mother, who had been warned but hadn’t expected to see me so soon. In her little study—which I recalled from postulant and novice days—I explained my reason for coming and asked if I could stay for a few days. How I had got there was already obvious. The superior appeared genuinely nonplussed about the whole affair but decided to let me have my way, and did so with kindness. She called my sister and asked her to make tea and look after me.
My sister was delighted to see me. We sat on the kitchen bench as she got the story—and all my other stories—out of me, saying, ‘Oh man!’ and, ‘Oh geez!’ I could count on her to be on my side! She made tea, raided the biscuit tins and found some cake in the fridge, all of which I gobbled up with gusto, even though we were in a serious period of penance before Easter. It was mid-morning and I hadn’t had breakfast yet.
On Easter Friday, I took on once more my old familiar task of sweeping the corridor. I strewed tea leaves across the width of the lino floors so they would absorb the dust as I systematically swept them up. Memories of miles of corridors crowded into my head, along with memories of terrifying nightmares of having forgotten to mop the floors and seeing dust collected in swirls of soft downy fluff.
After Easter, I returned to Benalla by car with four Genazzano nuns who were to spend some holidays there. My time with my sister made me feel infinitely better, for having had a sympathetic ear for a change.
Back home, nothing was said to me. The only person to hear my story was Sister Antoinette, who enjoyed my adventure, but held her breath for me. This, she knew, could not go on. Meanwhile, the little circle around Mother Albion advised her to send me to a psychiatrist for an assessment.
There was a retired, much respected, psychiatrist by the name of Dr Brown, who had close connections to Genazzano. He lived in Melbourne, within walking distance of the convent. An appointment was made and I travelled south again, accompanied by the same four silent nuns who had come up with me.
I was ushered into the venerable old man’s study, accompanied by the grim and accusatory Vicar of Genazzano. She was tight-mouthed, but her usually dull brown eyes were alert. Also present was someone not well known to me, who had arrived at Genazzano while I was overseas. She was a so-called neutral second person, but really they were there to get the opinion they wanted to hear.
Dr Brown was a gentle man who had the greatest respect for the reality of suffering, having observed it in his many patients. White-haired, soft-footed and slightly stooping, he nevertheless carried himself with rare grace. ‘Sister Mary Carla,’ he said, ‘tell me what is troubling you.’ He sat down and gave me the impression that he would listen with the utmost attention.
‘My reputation was torn apart even before I came to Benalla,’ I began, glancing at my companions. What would they know of any of this? They weren’t even members of my community! Dr Brown asked me to clarify, and I answered honestly and without hesitation, in the presence of my two witnesses. I told him about the injustices I had endured; how I had felt deliberately picked on for years. Finally I was able to speak out passionately and truthfully to someone with some authority whose job it was to listen.
Several times my companions tried to interrupt with outraged denial, but they were silenced. Finally he asked me, ‘What do you want, Sister? What do you think would be a solution to your problems?’
I knew the answer to his question the moment he asked it. ‘I would like to be sent to another convent, away from Mother Albion, preferably to be with my sister at Genazzano.’ It immediately occurred to me that the latter would never be granted, so I added, ‘I would like to make a new start with people who don’t know me.’
Dr Brown then spoke with my two companions, to give them his opinion.
I had no idea that he had been asked to give the verdict that I wasn’t fit to be a nun and should be expelled. It was extremely difficult to force someone to leave once she
had made her final vows; in fact it was impossible, unless someone with the right credentials was prepared to declare me psychologically unfit. But he did nothing of the sort.
In my presence, he told the two nuns that I showed symptoms of paranoia. When they spoke up and gave him what they thought was the real version of events (though neither lived in my convent), he explained that this was proof that my interpretations of reality were paranoid. At the same time he noted that I was passionately devoted to religious life, and intelligent with a high sense of integrity and idealism. He wrote a note there and then—which he showed me before he gave it to the Mother Vicar—recommending that I be sent to the new small community at Frankston, where nobody knew me and I could be given the fresh start I looked for.
It was sound, workable advice—and surely that’s what my companions had come for? But their sour faces showed their disappointment. It came as no surprise to me, once back at Benalla, to be told the decision of the hierarchy: nothing was going to be done. I was to stay where I was.
The eyes from abroad continued to watch me, and more letters landed on my desk. They had been advised of my latest exploit—hitch-hiking to Melbourne of all things!—and were co-opted to lecture me. Nobody understood the distress that had prompted my action; they saw my behaviour as an outrage, a slight on authority.
The most direct letter came from Mother Winifred. She didn’t mince her words:
‘Notre Mère is distressed that you are the cause of so much unhappiness in the community and wishes me to say to you that this must not continue. Sister, you are not satisfied with the way of Renewal settled by the Chapter and you are critical of authority. It is important that you look into yourself; and as you are not happy in the Society, it is possible that your Apostolate is elsewhere. Your way of acting and your want of respect for authority are quite contrary to our Spirit. Sister, if you are unhappy and dissatisfied there is something radically wrong in your religious life and it is time for you to seriously examine if you are in the right place. God bless you, Sister. Affectionately yours in JC, M Winifred.’
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